


Post-battle

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [48]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured John Watson, M/M, Protective Sherlock Holmes, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, can be platonic or romantic you decide, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: John gets injured on one of their cases. He's fine. Really, he's fine.Someone just needs to reassure Sherlock of that.They're both fine.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [48]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 7
Kudos: 338





	Post-battle

**Author's Note:**

> little shorter today! sorry about that

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: “Be more careful next time. I don’t want to bandage you up again.”

* * *

John winces as he closes the door, not prepared for the abrupt temperature shift to trigger the bruises littering his ribs. Sherlock, always watching, whisks him upstairs and sits him on the couch without a word.

“Sherlock, it’s fine, I—“

“No.”

“Sherlock,” John sighs, “it’s _fine._ ”

Sherlock’s back goes ramrod straight and John braces for the slew of deductions and insults that will prove it’s not fine. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, Sherlock spends a few seconds tensed up then his shoulders slump. He closes the partition to the kitchen with a soft request for John to wait.

John sighs, leaning onto his elbows, avoiding strain on his left side. Today’s case had been a long one. Someone stole an artifact from one of the community museums, hoping to make a quick cash grab from it. It ended in a wild chase clear across London, police cars screaming behind them as Sherlock ran after the suspect. John, of course, had been right behind him until another accomplice tackled him to the ground, forcing Sherlock to choose between helping him or racing after the other suspect.

Luckily, the police cut the other suspect off.

Lestrade took their statements, the suspects into custody, and told John to get himself checked out. John had scoffed, saying he’s been through worse and at any rate, _he_ was the doctor, he knew what to do. Lestrade laughed.

Sherlock didn’t.

They’d made their way back to the flat in silence, John trying to determine where he’d been hurt and Sherlock whirring away next to him. At first, John thought he was finishing up compiling from the case, but now…

Sherlock sweeps back into the room carrying the first aid kit. “Take your shirt off.”

“Sherlock—“

“John.”

There’s a staring contest for a few seconds until John sighs, taking off his jacket with a few winces and staring to work on the buttons to his shirt. Sherlock watches, knuckles white around the first aid kit.

John’s breathing a little heavier by the time he gets one arm free. Sherlock looks him over, mouth drawn into a thin line. He doesn’t look surprised, John notes, probably having deduced exactly the patterning of bruises now littering his ribs. It’s not that bad, a few dark purple spots, mostly yellow and green.

“It’ll be gone in less than a week,” John says, “and nothing’s broken.”

“You’ve likely got a few bruised ribs,” Sherlock snaps, “so finish taking your shirt off.”

“Alright, alright,” John mutters, “are you just going to stand there?”

His words snap Sherlock out of whatever daze he’s in and he crouches by the couch, first aid kit discarded on the floor. John sighs and lets his arms flop. Sherlock takes over pulling the fabric off of his arm, movements quick and sure. John grimaces when the cool air hits his other side. Sherlock’s right—no surprise there—he’s got at least two bruised ribs.

Sherlock’s fingers press gently in different spots, testing for tenderness. He notes the sharp inhalations and his mouth only draws tighter. When he finishes his examination, he just rests his hand over John’s side. His touch is cool against the inflamed skin. John sighs.

“I’ll get you a cold pack once I’m finished,” Sherlock mutters, turning for the first aid kit.

“Thanks.”

And yeah, now that the adrenaline’s worn off, it’s starting to ache a bit. Sherlock presses a tablet into John’s hand and he swallows it without protest. They’d had an argument about painkillers before, he’s not about to repeat it now.

Sherlock hasn’t said anything else. John watches his brow furrow under those black curls as he wraps the bandage around John’s ribs, double-checking to make sure they lie flat and won’t aggravate his injuries any further. There’s something soothing about the monotonous motion, lulling John into a tranquil state. Even though he’s had this experience of being taped up before, it’s nothing like the post-battle stress of the medic, nor is it the painfully awkward courtesy from most other hospitals.

It’s quiet.

A dog barks outside.

Sherlock’s hands are cool.

Mrs. Hudson’s baking downstairs, he can smell the cinnamon.

John closes his eyes.

Sherlock’s hands finish securing the last bandage and rest lightly on either of his sides, holding him steady. “John?”

He hums sleepily.

“John, open your eyes, please.” It’s the first time Sherlock’s spoken to him softly since they arrived home.

He does, looking down at Sherlock. Sherlock glances over him, still worried. Oh, right. Now he’s worried John’s hurt his head somehow.

“No concussion,” John reassures, “just tired.”

“Well, that’s to be expected when one runs half the length of London only to be tackled to the ground.”

John huffs a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

“You say that like you’re surprised.”

It’s made Sherlock smile a little so it’s alright. He’s reassured Sherlock he doesn’t have a concussion, so why is Sherlock still looking at him so intently? John stares right back, trying to figure it out.

Huh. He’s never noticed Sherlock’s eyes have green in them too.

“You alright?” Sherlock’s voice is barely above a whisper, his touch on John’s sides a barely-there pressure.

“Yeah,” John mumbles, “‘m alright.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Sherlock presses a little harder like he’s trying to hug John with just his hands. “Please,” he murmurs, “don’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief. “Be more careful next time,” he says, “I don’t want to bandage you up again.”

“There’s a chance we may be in the wrong business for that.”

It makes them both laugh, John stopping a little earlier when it puts pressure on his ribs. Sherlock stands up, forcing John to tilt his chin back to keep watching his flatmate.

“I’ll get you the cold pack now,” Sherlock says, pushing John’s shoulder until he lies against the back of the couch, “what would you like to eat?”

“Is that Chinese place still open?”

“I think so. Your usual?”

“Double the egg rolls,” John muses, “I could do with some more tonight.”

“Double the egg rolls it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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